Page 16 of Wicked Scandal

A smile grows on his face. “I knew I could count on you.”

“We’ve got twenty minutes before class begins. I’ll do what I can.” I open his laptop and begin reading. There is no way I can allow this to require an after-school session; it has to be now.

“Twenty minutes is perfect.” Spinning around, he grabs a chair and with a flick of his wrist, he sets it down beside me.

He’s so close. Too close. Every couple seconds, I find myself looking at the door, as if I’m expecting Troy to burst in like he did the last time we were sitting here together. He’s at work, though. There’s no way he’d come here at this time of day. I tell myself that, but here I am glancing between the words on the screen and out the windows, scanning for his car.

When Wilder leans in to watch me, I feel less worry and more comfort. It’s strange, but I feel like Wilder would never let anything happen to me. Not if he could stop it.

I push away that thought and focus on the document. It’s hard not to notice the worried look on Wilder’s face. He wants to do a good job on this article, and I can respect that.

His fingers drum against his knee nervously. “Can you tell me your thoughts? This silence might actually kill me.”

I read through this dumpster fire of a very rough draft, and when I’m done, I slap my hand to my forehead. “Seriously, Wilder?” I heave. “I know you can do better than this.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “With you I can. On my own, I’m doomed.”

Although I disagree with Wilder because I fully believe he can do this, it’s nice to hear him say he needs me. I tried to help Troy with something like this once and he insulted me before he could even read it. Said I was just a teacher and he has professionals who know what they’re doing to work on his press releases.

“I don’t get it,” I tell him, turning his way. “You’re one of the smartest students in the senior class. Why is this so hard for you?”

His joyous expression quickly fades. He shrugs, going from the confident top jock everyone else sees, to someone vulnerable. “I guess it’s the pressure of it all. A fear of failure.” He sighs, shaking his head as if he is disappointed in himself.

While this is a rougher draft than I imagined, it’s not the worst I have seen.

“You’re much too hard on yourself.” I pat his hand and he smiles.

Quickly drawing my hand away, I give him a knowing look. “And I know darn well you purposely made this terrible so I’d help you. Am I right?”

“Okay.” He smirks. “I’ll admit, it’s not my best work.”

He clenches his fists and I’m shocked when the action doesn’t make me flinch. With him I can see it’s not in anger, just frustration with himself. “Look, I’m not lying when I say I freeze up every time I try to write anything of substance. If it were for myself, it would be a breeze, but doing this for someone else’s future is hard as fu—” He immediately corrects himself. “Heck.”

I nod, understanding exactly what he means. The pressure to impress others can easily be all-consuming. In doing so, we put on a mask of perfection, hiding our true selves. The world is full of people who are too afraid to reveal their vulnerabilities and imperfections, so we sacrifice ourselves and our own happiness just to get validation from others.

While I may be thinking of something much bigger than an election, campaign, or news articles, it’s the same wall we’re putting up. One that we fear is full of judgment on the other side.

“Your intro is good.” I move the laptop between us so we can both see it clearly. Pointing to the next line on the screen, I say, “Delete this and add more emphasis to his plans for the beautification of the town’s parks.”

I watch intently as he taps at the keys, piecing together the key points in his notes with filler words that paint a much bigger picture of his dad’s plans. Plans that I’m actually excited for, given he wins the election.

“Here would be a great place to put the information on his hope for the preservation of the town's historic homes,” I say, pointing to the following paragraph. “The hardest thing about writing from information someone else gives you is the temptation to write as if you were making a grocery list. You're too focused on making sure all the information is there, instead of focusing on making it flow.”

He nods his head in agreement, so I continue, “When it feels like that's what you want to do, stop and look at each thing individually, then add three sentences to each bullet point to help further explain. This will also help when writing speeches.”

He immediately gets out his notepad from his backpack and starts writing down what I am telling him. This is why I love to teach Wilder. He values the information I bring to the table.

“Now that you have talked about how he wants to improve the look of the town, I think here would be a good place to expand on how he wants to help further other sports that are not just football.”

He sighs. “I feel weird writing this because all I know is football, though. How can I introduce other sports I don’t know that much about?” His brows are pinched as he stares at the screen. It’s so cute I pause and forget to answer his question for a moment.

“You still with me, Mrs. J?” A casual smirk plays on his lips.

I blush and roll my lips. “Of course, I was just thinking.” I pause for another second to compose myself because I am not sure what is happening to my brain right now.

“All right, so think of it this way. You might not know much about other sports, but what would the boosting of other sports do for the people of this town?”

He sits back in his chair, hand resting on his chin as he ponders my question. I can actually see the light bulb come on in his head when he grins back at me.

---